


all of my flaws are counted

by PaperRevolution



Series: outer-space mover [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, rated for Feanor's language really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 12:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12630771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/pseuds/PaperRevolution
Summary: Part two of the "outer-space mover" series. Space AU. For the first time since his rescue from Angband, Maedhros and his family have breakfast together. Things don't exactly go as planned.





	all of my flaws are counted

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Yes, Fëanor is alive. Nope, this doesn't fit with the canon chronology. Nope, I don't really care.  
> 2\. Speaking of chronology, this takes place maybe a few days after the events of "only to wake and hide your face".   
> 3\. Warnings for ableist microaggressions and general dysfunctional family stuff. What fun.

They stop talking the moment he enters the room.

Maglor is studiously eyeing the table. The twins glance at one another uncertainly. Only Celegorm eyes him openly.

“Morning,” says Maedhros pointedly. The doors hiss shut behind him as he steps into his father’s lodgings.

Amras throws an orange into the air and catches it deftly. It’s smooth and overbright enough not to look quite like a real orange, and he knows it would have the plasticky, vaguely alkaline taste of standard fifth-tier synthetic foods. Little wonder his brother evidently doesn’t plan on eating it.

“You’re just in time for breakfast,” Maglor’s voice is gentle, and there’s something vaguely indulgent in his tone that puts Maedhros immediately on edge.

“I’m late,” he counters. His voice is carefully light, neutral. “Where’s Dad?”

He crosses to the table. Caranthir—Caranthir, of all people—jumps to his feet and pulls out a vacant seat for him. The chair-legs scrape noisily on the floor, metal on metal.

Maedhros looks at Caranthir.

“Are you going to start opening doors for me, too?” He smiles forcedly. “I suppose chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

There’s a momentary pause. Caranthir, who for once seems to have no idea what to say, glowers.

Repressing a sigh, Maedhros drops into his seat. When he looks up, Maglor is eyeing the breakfast things, looking stricken.

“Do you—do you need—?”

Maedhros’ already fraying patience snaps abruptly. “For fuck’s sake, Maglor. How many times have you watched me eat breakfast in the med bay? How is this any different? Oh, I know; did I somehow misplace my remaining hand in the middle of the night and not realise it? Now you’ll have to do everything for me.”

There’s a long, oppressive silence, thick and viscous and suffocating. Ambarussa’s twin pairs of grey-green eyes are very wide. Maglor looks as though he has been struck.

“I didn’t mean—“ he starts, then shakes his head minutely. “I just meant—I’m sorry.”

Maedhros’ shoulders slump. He shuts his eyes very tightly for a fraction of a moment, then opens them again.

“It’s fine,” he says automatically. And then, because apparently he can’t help himself: “Just—please—Would you please stop treating me like I’m incapable of doing basic things? And stop treating me like I might break into a million pieces if you so much as look at me the wrong way. Because you know what? I’d kind of like to maybe feel at least a bit like an actual person again, at some point, and you lot really aren’t fucking helping!”

Oh.

He draws in a shaky breath. This is not how this is supposed to go. This is really not how this is supposed to go.

“Oh, Maitimo,” Maglor’s voice is choked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He wants very badly to get up and leave. He wants to be anywhere but in this little room where the people who are supposed to know him best are passing judgement on him. Are pitying him. Poor, poor Maitimo, scarred and maimed and emotionally damaged Maitimo. Gods.

And then things go from bad to about a million times worse. Because the doors whoosh open again. And it’s Fëanor.

*

“So, how is your training going, boys?” Fëanor asks Amrod and Amras over toast and strong coffee (fifth-tier synthetics again).

Amras grins broadly. Amrod, a half-second too late, hastily follows suit.

“It’s amazing,” Amras tells his father, “We’ve started on proper combat simulations now and I think we’re getting pretty good!”

Fëanor considers them both over the lip of his cup. “You are, are you?” His dark brows furrow into a frown, but for what might be the first time ever, he doesn’t press the issue. Instead, turning his head to look over at Maedhros, he says with a poorly affected sort of nonchalance: “And I’m told you might be able to make yourself useful to the war effort again, before too long. Our invaluable bionics technician tells me he met with you yesterday afternoon.”

Maglor, evidently remembering his earlier outburst, twitches a glance at him. Maedhros does his best to ignore him.

“I’m sure there are other ways I can be ‘useful’ in the meantime,” he replies, in what he hopes is a politely casual tone. “I know I’ve had a lot of time to myself, but lately I’ve been working to get an audience with the Captain of HMS Doriath; I really think they could be an important ally. And I’ve been talking to—“

“You,” Fëanor interjects, “Are not a diplomat. Do you think I want you trying to suck Thingol’s cock to get us an alliance we don’t need—“

Despite himself, despite all his promises to himself that he’d say nothing to antagonise his father, Maedhros feels his anger flaring.

“—Gods, have you even listened to yourself?” He cuts in. “An alliance we don’t need? In case you haven’t noticed, we need all the help we can get—“

“And you’re going to be the one to fix it all, are you?” Fëanor’s lips curl into a lupine sneer. “Explain to me why anyone would take you, a broken and unstable ex-soldier who let himself get captured, at all seriously?”

Celegorm barks a laugh.

“Dad,” says Maglor plaintively, leaning forward a little in his seat. “That’s not fair.”

Fëanor lets out a humourless snort and takes a fortifying gulp of coffee. “No? Then am I to assume your sudden bunk trade-off with Findekáno has nothing at all to do with anyone having any screaming nightmares, Kanafinwë?”

Maglor pulls in a breath, paling visibly.

There is a moment of silence, pressed thin. Maedhros wants to yell at his father; to tell him that he’s dealing with things the best way he knows how, and can’t that just be enough?

“I don’t,” he says instead in a small, flat voice that makes him sound like a young boy again, “scream.”

Fëanor makes an impatient noise. “You’ll be fitted for a decent prosthetic as soon as possible, and then return to training,” he says bluntly. “I realise you’ll never be the asset that you were, but as they say, these are hard times and you take what you can get.”

His chest constricts. He forces a nod.

He can’t look at any of them. At Maglor, at Celegorm and Caranthir and Curufin, at the twins. At his father.

“Good,” says Fëanor crisply. “I think training might be exactly what you need. Chase away all those unhelpful thoughts; channel them into something constructive.”

Since when were you the ship’s fucking counsellor, he thinks, but does not say.

Fëanor pushes his chair back and gets to his feet, brushing imaginary creases from his uniform.

“Well,” he says in a decisive sort of voice, “I have a meeting with the Commander shortly, so I’ll see you all at dinner later, I hope. Kanafinwë, I’m still waiting for that report from you; could you please have it on my desk by noon? Curvo, why don’t you swing by my office later? I have a few things I’d like your opinion on.”

He pauses at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Nelyafinwë? I really am glad you’re back with us. Let’s try to keep it that way, hm?”

And then he’s gone, the doors clicking into place at his back. And Maedhros feels about three centimetres tall, utterly worthless, and ready to crawl back to Angband.


End file.
